he hadn't meant to ask
anything for herself. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. She had
been fighting down this thought for days: that Hoddy did not care,
that he did not love her, that he had mistaken a vagary of the mind
for a substance, and now regretted what he had done--married a girl
who was not his equal in anything. The agony on the sands now
ceased to puzzle her.

All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered
themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them.
Why had he offered her that kiss on board _The Tigress_? Perhaps
that had been his hour of disenchantment. She hadn't measured up;
she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love.

Loneliness. Here was an appalling fact: all her previous loneliness
had been trifling beside that which now encompassed her and would
for years to come.

If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his
tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding
bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. Very well. She
would meet him upon this ground: he should never be given the
slightest hint that she was unhappy.

She still had her letter of credit. She could run away from him, if
she wished, as she had run away from her father; she could carry
out the original adventure. But the cases were not identical. Her
father--man of rock--had never needed her, whereas Hoddy, even if
he did not love her, would always be needing her.

Love stories!... A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it
she buried her face in a pillow.

Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west
veranda. The chair had extension arms over which a man might
comfortably dangle his legs. For awhile he watched the revolving
light on Copeley's. Occasionally he relit his pipe. Once he
chuckled aloud. Certain phases of irony always caused him to
chuckle audibly. Every one of those four stories would be accepted.
He knew it absolutely, as if he had the check in his hand. Why?
Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of
Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs
in this cup of irony. For what could be more ironical than for
Howard Spurlock to see himself grow famous under the name of Taber?
The ambrosia of which he had so happily dreamt!--and this gall and
wormwood! He stood up and rapped his pipe on the rail.

"All right," he said. "Whatever you say--you, behind those stars
th